


One

by snarkyscorp



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M, Rimming, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-16
Updated: 2010-07-16
Packaged: 2017-11-05 21:35:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/411250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snarkyscorp/pseuds/snarkyscorp
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry knows he should tell Scorpius everything, all the scary little bits inside his head that make him human and real and even weak. He knows Scorpius still looks at him and thinks <i>Harry Potter</i> like every boy his age does when Harry walks into a room. At first, it was maddening. Then, a little flattering. Now, Harry knows Scorpius deserves the truth if he is going to stick around.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One

Harry wonders idly what he could possibly want. There is a list he wrote on a spare bit of parchment stretching several inches with all the reasons this won't work. But there is a feeling in his chest that aches to prove the list wrong as his fingers pass through silk-soft strands of hair, light as a feather and just as beautiful. He tucks a few lax strands behind Scorpius's ear, watches his lashes twitch in sleep.

"Bollocks," he says and means it, because with the sun streaming in over the crown of Scorpius's head, he can't seem to concentrate on the practicality of the list. Instead, he finds his eyes wandering to every bare bit of pale skin he can find—the delicate bend at Scorpius's knee, the length of his calf, the arch of his neck, the little part in the crease of his lips that looks so kissable that it simply isn't fair.

When he gets up, Harry's bones are sore and crack when he stretches. He wonders how he could have kept up with a team of Aurors for twenty years just fine but can't manage to keep pace with one single boy of nineteen for more than a few months. He suspects Scorpius will run him ragged…and also suspects that he will not mind.

As every morning, Harry puts eggs on the stove. Today, he lays out some prep work for crepes as well. Scorpius likes sweets with every meal, a trait he has inadvertently passed to Harry over the past few months, so Harry knows the scent of brown sugar and strawberries will rouse Scorpius just as naturally as any kiss he might have thought of planting.

Harry knows he should tell Scorpius everything, all the scary little bits inside his head that make him human and real and even weak. He knows Scorpius still looks at him and thinks _Harry Potter_ like every boy his age does when Harry walks into a room. At first, it was maddening. Then, a little flattering. Now, Harry knows Scorpius deserves the truth if he is going to stick around.

The crepes are filled the sugar, fruit, and the rest of Harry's secret recipe—he called it "Lily's Blend" when his daughter was just a kid and not a grown-up teenager with her hair dyed black and her lips pierced like a snake bite. He doesn’t wonder where he went wrong, because he loves his kids no matter how weird he thinks they are sometimes, but wonders instead how he has come to be this old so quickly. It seems, like many things, that it was just yesterday he sat beside Ron on the Hogwarts Express or shook Kingsley's hand after the war or stood outside the newborn ward at St. Mungo's wondering _please God let me get through this_ or made his first batch of Lily's Blend for breakfast one Sunday morning before things got complicated and he realised he was gay and the divorce stole Ginny's heart from him.

Long, gangly arms encircle Harry's waist, dangerously low at the band of his pyjama bottoms. Scorpius's fingers are warm against the cool skin at Harry's belly, a cozy reminder of just how long Scorpius has been snuggling under his blankets. Scorpius even smells like Harry now, having used his shampoo and soaps in their shower from the previous morning. Scorpius leans his lanky, smooth body against Harry's and presses a sleep-tender kiss to his hard shoulder.

"Morning," Scorpius whispers, following the line of Harry's jaw with his mouth. "Crepes. How sweet." Harry can feel Scorpius's thin lips curve into a grin.

Scorpius thinks he's clever. He's nineteen, rich, beautiful, and top of his game at Quidditch, one the best Seekers that Harry (and the rest of the world) has seen in a long time. He thinks life is easy, because his life _has_ been easy. Fine Malfoy China laid out like clockwork for him by house-elves every morning, tea poured into his waiting saucer every night, a line of admirers around the corner just begging for a sickle of his fortune, arse-kissings at every turn. Scorpius eats it up, revels in the attention and admiration, and has never lifted a finger for himself in his life.

Harry is glad Scorpius has had it easy, that his life is filled with happy memories instead of bitter ghosts, wishes only the same for everyone else who owns a part of his heart. But while Harry doesn't want to shatter Scorpius with reality, he knows it is creeping around on them every day like a rampant storm hidden in dark clouds. There are trickles of the thunder in the _Daily Prophet_ articles that suppose Harry has been keeping a lover, of the times when Albus slips and calls one of his friends a pillow-biter and then looks to Dad with endless apologies in his eyes, and in the moments when Scorpius doesn't seem to understand there are things meant to keep them apart.

Harry thinks of that list again, decides he should have another look after breakfast.

"So quiet," Scorpius muses, rocking their bodies side to side as he continues his path up to Harry's ear. "Always so strong and silent, Harry. Sometimes, I wish—"

But Harry stops that thought by turning in Scorpius's arms to kiss him. They have had the conversation before. Twice. Once when Scorpius was seventeen and Harry thought him ridiculous and cocky but slept with him because he was lonely and they were both a little drunk and Harry thought he'd never have another chance to do something stupid, and once more when Scorpius sought him out nearly two years later to ask for a date. The conversation always ended the same way—Harry put a firm period on it and walked away.

"You've been picking at the crepes," Scorpius accuses, sneering in a way that twists his pointed face like his father's.

"Mm, have not," Harry argues.

"Have so. I can taste the sugar on your tongue, you rascal."

At that, Harry can't help but laugh. "All right. You caught me."

Scorpius lingers close, reaches behind Harry to turn off the gas. "I'll get the pumpkin juice." But still, he lingers. Taller than Harry by nearly a head, Scorpius cranes his pretty neck to steal another kiss and that, too, lingers. It is like Scorpius is stalling for something, belaying the moment he has turn to away and walk the five paces to the ice box. When he pulls his lips away, Scorpius's ice blue eyes are focused on him with an expression that escapes Harry. "I can't believe you wrote that awful list."

Harry feels his heart jump to his throat. Scorpius is looking at him like he _knows_ but there is a smirk kissing the edge of his lips like he doesn't care.

"Yeah, I read it. Bloody stupid to write it out, let alone leave it on your desk where any unsuspecting snoop could discover it."

"I didn't mean—"

"I know." Scorpius pulls away, winking, and waltzes to the ice box to grab the pumpkin juice. He knows Harry's kitchen by heart, grabs two Chudley Cannons glass collector's cups from the cupboard where he knows Harry keeps those sorts of things, and begins to pour. "How long have you been thinking all that?"

Harry sighs, turns back to the eggs and crepes and begins to plate them. "A while. Since the first time we met, really."

"Seems like a lot of silly worrying over nothing if you ask me." There is hurt in Scorpius' tone, an ache, an anger.

"That's why I wasn't going to tell you."

Scorpius chuckles. It is low and throaty and one of the most beautiful noises Harry has ever heard, except it is broken now. "Harry, let me tell you something about that list." When Scorpius turns to face him, his eyes are wet and his lips are pursed. He looks all of nineteen and frightened and so young. "I've thought of every single excuse, too. First, your age. Of course, your age—I'm nineteen. You'll be forty-five this summer. It's impossible not to think it, when you remind me how long you've been an Auror. Good thing I think the pepper of gray in your hair is damned sexy and you're fitter than I am. Simply put, I don't care. Then, there's your kids. I was good mates with Al in school, so I get that. It's weird. But so long as you don't want me to call you daddy, I don't see the issue."

With a breath taken, Scorpius approaches Harry and steals the plates from his weak grip. He places them on the table and waves Harry to sit, which he does, wordlessly. Scorpius sits across from him, smiling placidly.

"There's your divorce, which I don't give a damn about, and the fact that I'm the son of someone you don't particularly care for, and the whole _you're famous_ thing, which I have been over since we first shagged in that hotel in Diagon Alley two years ago, and you're worried people will talk and my Quidditch sponsors will lose interest in me and that Lily will hate you or _James_ will hate you or you'll hate yourself because you think I'm just some kid you're seducing or some shit." Scorpius picks up his fork and stabs his eggs with brutal intent. "I'm nineteen and smarter than you give me credit. I understand the risks, am willing to take them, and would appreciate it if you would stop being so neurotic about all the things you think could go wrong and pay attention to the fact that I worship the ground you walk on." At Harry's look, Scorpius adds, "And not because you're Harry Potter, you wanker. Because I love you."

Crepes and pumpkin juice forgotten, Harry rounds the table and whirls Scorpius out of his chair, nudges him against the counter and begins to ravage his exquisite mouth with tongue and teeth. Scorpius makes the most beautiful noises beneath him, his erection quick to prod Harry's thigh like it owns the place.

Harry drops instantly to his knees, tugs Scorpius's shorts down, and takes him in. Scorpius is quick to orgasm and Harry drinks him up like warm milk, tugging Scorpius's balls and then even working a finger into his arse up to the second knuckle.

"L-Lube," Scorpius begs. "Please, Harry."

"Accio lube," is the fastest command. The bottle spins into Harry's outstretched hand and Harry squeezes it so tight that the cap pops open and a bit slithers down his palm. It smells like vanilla, Harry's favourite.

Even though Scorpius has orgasmed, he turns and braces himself on the counter. Harry watches him twitch and hum and pant. He is waiting for Harry to do something, the suspense driving him up the wall. And if he thinks Harry is just going to twist his fingers in and be done, he's so very wrong. Instead, Harry's fingers pry his cheeks apart and his lips and tongue work his hole until Scorpius is shuddering and when Harry reaches under to grip his dick and smear lubrication into his arse, Scorpius is hard again and feverish beneath his touch.

 _I love you_ , Scorpius had said. The words are out in the open. Harry hasn't said them to anyone but Ginny his whole life, isn't sure he's ready to say them to Scorpius now, except he knows he cares for Scorpius more than he has cared for anyone in years and thinks it is time to let Scorpius in that last inch that will separate Scorpius from just a summer fling to a lover or something beyond.

"Mine," Harry says.

"Yours," Scorpius affirms, his voice like a sob in the bright lights of early afternoon sun streaming through the kitchen window.

Harry presses in. Scorpius whines. Something shifts, and they are one.


End file.
